


Kith and Kin

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [18]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Meredith is no evil mastermind—Meredith isn't any kind of mastermind—and he's no innocent victim." A TARDIS-verse two shot, set during Significant Others (5 x 10).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The seventeenth story in the TARDIS-verse. Another season 5, because, you know, the end of that season did not bring enough angst. I thought we needed to revisit the middle of the season for angst.

She doesn't know why she should cut him a break.

He screwed up. Badly. He _keeps_ screwing up. He keeps making it worse.

He's like a train wreck. A really cute train wreck. A really cute train wreck she's pissed at.

She has every right to be pissed. She has every right to punish him and no reason in the world to cut him a break.

But she wants to.

It's not because he's cute. It's not _entirely_ because he's cute. (But he's pretty cute, even when he's being entirely fucking clueless and bad decisions are piling up behind him like derailed freight cars. He's pretty cute even when he is making it _worse_.)

He's trying. The thought makes her cringe.

She's not a woman who grades on a curve. There are no _A_ s for effort in Kate Beckett's world.

But he _is_ trying.

He's worried about his daughter. He's keeping his mouth shut (mostly) about where and how she picked up mono. He's . . . trying to be fair to Meredith?

No, she can't quite make it there, however cute he is.

He's being manipulated by Meredith, but it's not quite that simple, either.

Meredith is no evil mastermind—Meredith isn't any kind of mastermind—and he's no innocent victim.

Meredith is breathtakingly self-centered. She's tactless and unthinking and superficial, but she also genuinely wants to be there for Alexis. Sort of. At the moment. As long as being there isn't too inconvenient or gross or demanding or boring.

And Alexis deserves to have her mother there. Anytime she wants her (or Meredith can be bothered), of course, but certainly when she's sick. Certainly when she must be really disappointed about missing their trip.

And if Alexis doesn't exactly seem disappointed . . .

If Alexis seems kind of _relieved_ that the trip didn't happen . . .

If she seems more long suffering than glad that her mother is around . . .

If Alexis deserves more than she gets from Meredith . . .

If she's an adult who doesn't need her father custody-wrangling on her behalf. . . .

Well it's not really Kate's place to say anything, is it?

She doesn't know. She really doesn't know if it is or it isn't. If she should or she shouldn't.

It's why she wants to cut him a break.

It's part of the reason, anyway.

Last year, he might have asked her. She thinks he would have vented to her, at least, but he might have asked her advice. She might have given it and he might have listened. Eventually.

She thinks a lot of things might have been if this had happened last year, but maybe not.

They were careful. This time last year, they were so careful with each other. She was trying to be more. He was waiting. She knew she wasn't anywhere close to being enough yet, and every day he was by her side, telling her that she was. She was enough.

This time last year, he was lying to her. About Smith. About Montgomery and his eleventh hour deals.

She doesn't want to wonder what else he might have lied to her about if the situation had presented itself. She doesn't want to wonder if he and Meredith might have picked up where they left off three years ago.

She doesn't want to wonder if having Meredith installed in the loft wouldn't have been cause for venting then, particularly venting to her. She doesn't want to wonder whether he'd have kept his mouth shut if this had happened last year.

She doesn't want to wonder how he's ever been able to reconcile occasional crazy- person sex, however "incredible" it is, with the fact that the woman hasn't bothered to see her daughter— _his_ daughter—in three years.

She doesn't want to wonder about any of it.

It's not fair to him. Not completely, anyway.

She tells herself that, and the better part of her knows it's true. It's just that the better part of her has been pretty quiet since he invited his ex-wife to stay with him. With _them_. The better part of her hasn't had much to say since Meredith draped herself over the breakfast bar in her underwear and cuddled up to him with _her_ coffee.

But it's not fair to him. And she's not doing herself any favors, thinking that way.

They weren't together last year. She had no claim on him, and even so he was . . . faithful. She hates that there's no word for it. No easy way to talk about the fact that he was waiting. That he took himself out of the game. That he stepped back when the game came to him. That he was waiting and apparently unwilling to make things any more complicated than they were.

Until he found out she was lying to him, too. And then . . .

That's not fair, either. That's not fair to her. It's not fair to who she was last year and how hard she was trying not to screw things up any more than she already had and what does any of this matter anyway?

They weren't together last year. Meredith didn't show up with her panties and inside jokes and he didn't not cheat on her. Not that it would have been cheating, exactly.

But last year he might have asked her about all this. Last year she might have said something. Last year it wouldn't have been so complicated.

But it's not last year. They are together. It _is_ complicated.

She's not really jealous. Not much, anyway. She's still really not over pantsless Meredith, and the fact that he didn't bat an eye at that. It stings that she has a past with him. That she knows him in ways that Kate is still learning. In ways she might never know him.

But she's not worried about the two of them falling into bed together while she's at work. She's not worried that he'll be struck by a deep-fried Twinkie craving in the middle of the night and slip away to slam the guest room headboard with his ex.

She's not _seriously_ worried about that.

She's really hardly worried about that at all.

* * *

He's done with damage control.

He can't win here. He can't do anything right. He can't even _say_ anything without it all going horribly wrong.

So he's done. He is riding this out and nothing more.

He's mad. Maybe that's why he keeps screwing up. And he _is_ screwing up. He knows that. Every time he tries to fix things, he screws up. He sees it. A minute too late—every time—he sees how wrong it's all going, and he can't stop himself from doing the next thing to try to fix the last thing. He just keeps screwing up.

It might because he's mad. It might be that he's lashing out. Sabotaging. Because he's mad.

He probably doesn't get to be mad here. No one on the outside looking in is going to think he has any right to be mad. If he were writing this, _he_ wouldn't think he has any right to be mad. He cannot sell any scenario to himself where he gets to be mad about any of this.

But he is.

He's mad that Meredith's here. He's mad that she's manipulating him. He's mad that this is ruining _everything_ with Kate. He's mad that Kate's _letting_ it ruin everything.

It's a big deal. To him, even if it's not to her. The fact that she asked to stay—the fact that she even _thought_ to ask instead of doing something so stupid and so _Beckett,_ like camping out at the precinct for days, or booking a hotel without even talking to him—is a big deal.

She acts like a guest here most of the time. She packs and unpacks her overnight bag and a day or two's worth of things come and go through the door with her. She lays out things on the dresser—and even _that's_ relatively new—and scoops them back up in the morning.

No matter how often she stays, no matter how many nights in a row, everything comes and goes with her. Like she doesn't want to leave a trace. Like she's a very polite guest.

But she asked to stay here. She asked to stay with him. It's a big deal, and now it's ruined.

He'd been looking forward to it. He had plans. Things she likes in the fridge and the pantry. A human-sized bottle of her shampoo in the shower and a fluffy new robe on the back of the bathroom door. Her laundry mixed up with his and maybe one or two things might've gotten "misplaced" and stayed there. Maybe one or two things wouldn't have rolled out the door in her suitcase when she left.

He'd been looking forward to playing house. To dinner and breakfast being a given. To doing away with the awkward conversation at the end of the day about whether she was going home or coming over. Whether he was welcome at her place or if she felt like staying at his.

He'd been looking forward to it and now it's ruined.

Now it's a brusque goodnight kiss (if he's lucky) and a vicious yank on the bedside lamp chain two seconds later. Now it's the cold shoulder at the precinct and Ryan and Esposito taking every opportunity to remind him how badly he's screwing this up. Now it's worse than that from Lanie, who may be actively plotting his death.

Now it's staring up at the ceiling and missing her when she's lying next to him. When she's close enough to touch, but her back is to him and the blankets are pulled around her like armor.

She's right there on her side of the bed, but she might as well be at her place. She might as well be on the lumpy break room couch with a blazer flung over her. She might as well be a guest here, and he misses her.

He misses her and he's mad about it.

He's mad at himself and Meredith and the situation and he's mad at Kate.

Probably only one of those is reasonable, but they're all true.

He could be mad at Meredith. That might be reasonable. He might be able to sell that if he weren't the one going off script here. Meredith is behaving exactly the way she's behaved for as long as he's known her. With him, she's behaving the way he's always let her, and with Alexis, she's . . . well, at least she's here.

He could be mad at the situation, except it's a situation of his own making. See above, re: Meredith. Still, he'd kick the situation in the crotch if it had one.

He can't be mad at Kate, but he is.

She could have said no when he asked her.

Except that he asked her in front of Meredith. In front of Alexis. So she really couldn't have. He shouldn't have asked her to.

And she did give him The Look. That was not his finest hour. Pretending like he didn't see The Look.

But she could have let him fix it. She could have suffered the Four Seasons. She could have subjected herself to champagne and strawberries and a jacuzzi and let him romance her.

Except that's not what she asked for. She asked to stay _here_.

He thinks about it. Replays the moment. She asked. She didn't casually bring up the fact that her place was being fumigated and wait for him to invite her. She didn't hint that she'd have to find some place to stay for a few days. She asked.

She _asked._ And he's an idiot. Because it's a big deal to her, too, isn't it? She asked to stay here. It's a big deal to her and he missed it.

He's used to being the one who needs things from her. It's a habit and a bad one. Bad for both of them.

He's used to wanting and not having. He's used to waiting and maneuvering and cajoling.

But that's not how it is now. Not all the time, anyway, and so _what_ if she likes her own space and sharing takes some getting used to? They're not kids with nothing diving into their first apartment together and travel-sized shampoo is not a scathing indictment of the stability of their relationship and she just _asked_.

She needed somewhere to stay and she asked. She didn't make a big deal of it, but it _is_ a big deal.

And now it's ruined and he has only himself to be mad at.

* * *

She gives up on sleep at 1:17 AM.

It's his fault. He's sleeping and she feels a lot less like cutting him a break right now. Because he's hunched over, facing away from her like _he's_ the one with the right to turn his back on her. He's _sleeping_.

She loves his bed. She's loved it since that first night. She's loved it since she startled awake, shocked as hell that she'd fallen asleep at all, because she doesn't. She's never slept easily in someone else's space. Never like that. Never the first time or the first dozen times after that.

But that night, she slept. That night she fell in love with his bed.

There's a lot to love. The mattress is insanely comfortable, the sheets are decadent, and the comforter is perfect. She's pretty sure his pillows have been reading her diary. It's huge and she loves to sprawl across it as much as she loves to curl up.

She loves it, but tonight it's lumpy and too hot. Tonight the sheets scratch at her skin and the comforter is suffocating her. Tonight she's rigid on the far side of an imaginary line and he's _sleeping._

She's not. She gives up.

She jerks the blankets down. She goes from stifling hot to freezing in an instant. It pisses her off. She slaps her feet on the floor. The rug absorbs the sound and that pisses her off, too.

She yanks on the yoga pants she'd stripped off before climbing into bed. They piss her off, too, because if anyone has the right to prance around the loft pantsless, it's her, and it _really_ pisses her off that she even just had that thought. That it's a thought it's possible for her to have.

She's halfway through the living room before she even realizes that she has her phone and keys in her hand. She was thinking about tea and an infomercial. Maybe a boring book to tire her out.

She wasn't leaving. She's not leaving in the middle of the night just because he's a train wreck. She's not just going to pick up and go because he's sleeping and she's not. She wasn't even thinking about leaving.

Except she has her keys and her phone and she's wondering where she left her ugly, practical snow boots, so apparently she was. Apparently she was thinking about it.

She sinks against the back of the couch. She keeps sinking until she's nothing but a sleep-deprived heap on the floor.

The loft is quiet. That's good. It means Alexis is sleeping through the night. Last night, her throat had hurt badly enough to keep her awake. Castle had slipped out of bed to sit with her. Kate could hear him murmuring to her, telling her stories into the wee hours.

She doesn't even remember him coming back to bed. It was late. That's all she knows, and there can't have been much time between tucking Alexis back into her own bed and him shuffling out to find Meredith in her underwear and nutmeg in his coffee.

_Whenever Rick pulled all-nighters . . ._

He's exhausted. He has to be.

He's not sleeping because he's oblivious. Or not _just_ because he's oblivious. He's not sleeping specifically to piss her off.

But she is. She's pissed off.

She loves it here. She loves the quiet. On the rare nights when she can't sleep— they're rare when she's here, and that still surprises her—she loves to listen. She loves to feel the space around her while she's lying in the dark.

She's always felt welcome. At home. Always. In the early days, it was enough to send her running. It was enough to make her perch warily on the corner of his desk or to keep her lingering in the hallway, one hand on the door handle while he changed.

It was enough to make her bristle and ache and resent the uncomplicated appeal of their open door. Of Martha's easy, affectionate embrace and Alexis's eager pleasure whenever she stopped by. Of him grinning at the addition of her to their oddball mix.

But she loved it even then. Even when it whispered to her about all the things she was missing in her life. All the things she'd given up on. She'd loved it even then.

She remembers seeing it for the first time. She remembers how the colors and the soft light struck her first, and then the way they've filled it with things. Sprawling, masculine furniture and over-the-top feminine touches she knows as Martha's now, but wondered about then. Playful elements scattered all over, and everything comfortable and top of the line, but no conspicuous consumption. Nothing there to see of the sake being seen.

She remembers feeling . . . satisfied. Like his home was a hunch confirmed. Proof that there was more to him than the version of himself he was selling outside its walls. She remembers it scaring the hell out of her, too. She remembers that it would have been easier—simpler—to go on buying the other version.

It's not a coincidence that she found herself telling him about her mother then. After seeing him here—playing with his daughter, sniping with his mother. And opening his door to her. Working with her when there was really no work to do. Just feeling that Melanie Cavanaugh's story wasn't over yet.

It's not a coincidence.

She's always loved it here, but tonight it's too hard. The familiar space presses in on her. Its rooms are too filled with bodies and family and history she has no part in. She wants to go.

She was going. Her phone and keys are still in her hand. They pull her up from the floor. They unfold her legs and her spine and lead her toward the front door and it pisses her off.

It all pisses her off, but she's going.

She's still going.

* * *

He bobs on the surface of uneasy sleep.

He's tired, but his mind is busy. It's a constant buzz and clamor and when sleep pulls his body under, it leaves his mind free to spin frenetic dreams. He's too tired for nightmare. Too tired for anything imaginative.

It's all mundane anxieties set in a lurid reality. He dreams that Alexis is calling him and he can't wake himself. That he's trying to get Meredith to the airport but she won't go unless he promises to drive the Ferrari from the backseat. That the oven is on and he's out of the paperclips he likes. That Kate is gone.

He starts awake at that. His mind punches down through the murky layer of sleep and pulls his body up and out. He starts awake and halts in the act of turning toward her.

He can't bear it. He thinks he can't bear to see the unforgiving curve of her spine arcing away from him. He can't bear the imaginary line and the vast expanse of the bed separating him from her.

He can't bear how stupid it all is. That he can't fix this. He can't see any way to fix this when everything he does just makes it worse.

He stops in the act of turning. Collapses back, facing out. Facing away.

The next second, he realizes she's gone. It wasn't a dream. She _is_ gone and he's pressing himself up. He's peeling sleep away. Tearing at the blankets and fumbling for his phone. He's urging his heavy feet to move. _Move_.

He stops again. She's gone. She's not just _up_. She's not in the bathroom or getting a glass of water or raiding the candy dish in the office. She's gone. He's absolutely sure of that. He's absolutely sure.

He lets himself fall on his back. He lets himself sprawl, because why not? She's gone. There's no his side and her side. No imaginary line. So why not?

Because sprawling takes him over the imaginary line. Because there's an imaginary line whether she's gone or not. Because her side of the bed is cold. Because it's still her side. Because it's been her side since before they were together. Because it will be her side for the rest of his life, and it's cold. Because she's been gone a while.

That's why not.

He closes his eyes and lets himself wonder how he knows. That she's not just up. That she's gone.

The first part is simple enough. He knows when she's near. He knows the sound of her breath on a busy city street. He can pick the curve of her shoulder in particular out of a crowd and the lift of her eyebrows from a sea of faces. His head turns with hers and gesture meets gesture. It's been that way from the beginning and his hands have long since mastered the art of not quite touching her. He knows when she's near.

But he knows she's gone, too. He might have heard the door, but he doesn't think so.

She's quiet. She's soundless by profession. Soundless by long habit, and that's not about to change just because she's angry enough to go. She's angry enough to leave in the middle of the night, but he doesn't think it was the door.

It's not some mystical sixth sense, either. It's something dull and explicable. He feels his mouth twist in a perverse grin. That's her influence. It's the middle of the night and he can't grant himself the smallest romantic fiction about souls and separation. That's all her, whether she's gone or not.

It's her phone, he realizes. She leaves it on, of course. Sound on the lowest setting and face up on the night stand. It's enough to wake her, the soft sound and the flare of light.

Its absence is enough to wake him. The removal of a constant. Eventually, it's enough to wake him. It's enough now to tell him that she's gone.

He thinks about going after her. About getting up. Tracking her down. Texting or calling and asking where the hell she is. Where the hell she thinks she's going in the middle of the night. He thinks about calling her out because she's _gone_. She left.

He thinks about it for half a second and then it goes. The very idea goes.

He'd only make things worse. It's another thing that won't fix the last thing.

He writes the scene in his head. He has nothing better to do, so he imagines all the ways it would go wrong. All the stupid things he'd say and every single thing she wouldn't. Clumsy dialogue for him and silence for her.

He writes a dozen variations on a theme, but they all come down to the simple fact that he can't fix this. That anything he does will make it worse.

That he's done. Not because he wants to be. Because he has to be.

Because she's gone.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Meredith is no evil mastermind—Meredith isn't any kind of mastermind—and he's no innocent victim." A TARDIS-verse two shot, set during Significant Others (5 x 10).

It's no better on the other side of the door.

It's no better in the hallway or the lobby or out on the street.

It's worse. However bad it was in the suddenly close confines of the loft, this is worse.

She misses him.

Not just him right now. Not just knowing that he's on the other side of the bed. That he's right there, even if she's pissed at him.

She misses _him._

It hasn't even been forty-eight hours since Meredith landed on their doorstep and she misses everything about how easy it is to be with him.

Not all the time. They're both too stubborn. They're both too used to having their own way for it to be easy all the time.

But most of the time.

Most of the time it's comfortable. Like being alone, without the loneliness. Talking to him—listening to him—is restful.

She wants to laugh at that. The idea that anything about him is restful, but it's true.

It's like thinking out loud and someone she really likes answering back. Above and beyond everything else—the way she wants him all the time and the way she hopes he knows she feels, whether she says it or not—she likes _really_ likes him and she misses how easy it is.

It's worse out here. It's cold. She stole one of his jackets for the extra length, but the yoga pants aren't cutting it. The weather is miserable, but that's not what makes it worse.

It's every step she takes away from his door. It's the fact that she had to go. That she couldn't stop herself from going, and this is worse.

She stops herself now. She glowers down at her own feet and hooks her fingers around a brick and stops herself. She hates that this is what it takes—the physical effort of it—but she stops.

She looks up and breathes. She takes a second and another and knows she's going back. Because she shouldn't have gone and this is worse.

She looks up and winces. It's bright and disorienting like sudden daylight out of place. She narrows her eyes to slits and peers around the corner.

She smiles. It's grim. She feels that in the set of teeth on teeth and the hard line of her lips, but it's a smile.

The picture comes together. Not just where she is, but where she's going and how.

Her phone is in her hand and then it is isn't. She hesitates. He's sleeping. She forgot that he was sleeping.

That makes it ok, somehow. The fact that she forgot. That it's not a punishment. It's that she misses him and this is urgent. This is worth it and he'll think so, too.

This is her cutting him a break and the phone is in her hand again. She turns the corner and lets the neon draw her closer. She lets the neon—a familiar neon sign—draw her a few steps more away from him. Just for now. Just a few steps more and just for now.

The phone is in her hand and she taps out the familiar message: _Time out._

* * *

He gets out of bed anyway. He's not going after her, but he gets out of bed.

She's no less gone wherever he is.

He thinks it's worst in the bedroom, but that's only until he's in the office. Until he sits at his desk and pops open the laptop. Then that's worse. It's worse that he's not tapping away. Setting word counts and page-based finish lines. Milestones until he can close up and give in to the tug—the relentless pull of of knowing she's in his bed.

He thinks that's the worst until he's in the living room and all the furniture is empty. All the throws are neatly folded and the pillows are plumped and waiting for her to unfurl herself. To toss them aside or snatch them up. To rearrange them under and around and over herself.

But the kitchen is really the worst. The scene of his most recent crime and the site of his first domestic fantasy about her. About giving her a home. Making a home with her, however unlikely that was. However unlikely it might still be, given how _badly_ he is screwing this up.

However childish and stubborn and hopeless that vision has been through the years, he's never been able to let go of that morning. Borrowed clothes and her behind the counter. Her at the stove and chatting easily with his mother. It's been three years and he's never been able to let go of the fantasy of her at home here.

The kitchen is the worst, but he sinks on to the stool anyway. He presses his palms against the frigid marble. The cold grabs hold of his joints. His knuckles tighten. His hands feel old and there's grim satisfaction in it. Some kind of prophecy coming to pass.

He spins the spice rack. The clatter is loud in the darkness. He stops it, afraid it will wake Alexis, even though he's foggily grateful for the company of even the smallest sound. He knocks a canister loose. It bounces on the counter once with a loud _tock!_ and rolls to the floor before his clumsy hands have half a chance. It lands with an even louder _tock!_ and the lid bursts off. _Of course_.

He stoops to retrieve it. He more than half expects it to be nutmeg, but it's red pepper. A fine mist of it is still raining down. It stings his eyes and nose and skin. He sneezes. It's huge and he unwisely tries to fight it. He tries to keep it quiet and it bulges painfully against his ribs. His head rears up and smacks against the underside of the counter.

He thinks about giving up. He thinks about collapsing on the floor and waiting for the end to come, and he cares not at all how melodramatic this dead-of-night tantrum is.

He's mad and she's gone and there's nothing he can do to fix anything and he's done.

He's just _done._

His phone chimes then. It's loud. Even all the way from the bedroom, it's loud.

His phone chimes.

Except it doesn't. It can't possibly. There is absolutely no way that just happened. He barks out a harsh laugh and claps a hand over his mouth the next second. There's red pepper all over it and it burns.

He assumes he's lost his mind. That he's dreaming. That he never did get out of bed and this is one of _those_ dreams. Waking up like nesting dolls.

But it happens again. The phone chimes and he clambers up. He dusts his hands off on his thighs and absently thinks that will come back to bite him later. It will, but he doesn't have time for it. On the off chance that he hasn't lost his mind—that he's not dreaming and it's her—he has absolutely no time to think about the perils of red-pepper-dusted flannel.

He trips over every thing there is to trip over. The phone chimes again just as he picks it up. Just as he turns it over in his hand it chimes again and lights up.

_Time out._

He taps it back and hits send before the worry can set in.

* * *

She takes the stairs. It's a stall tactic as much as anything. She doesn't want to wait. She doesn't want to be standing on his roof waiting for him.

It's a good idea, though. She's warmer by the time she hits the top step. By the time she pushes out on to the neat stone path and its right angles cutting through the sleeping garden, she's warmer and her mind is clear.

And the stalling works. She has time for a handful of deep breaths. Time for a few sips of the Mexican cocoa and then the phone buzzes in her hand. She peers down, and the color bleeds back into her fingers when she sees it. The usual countersign.

She's relieved. She always is. She shouldn't be. She doesn't need to be. But she always is.

She texts him the letters— _Roof_ —then thinks better of it. She adds _YOURS_ because he's not exactly 100%.

She makes her way to a particular corner, the one she thinks of as theirs. She pulls up short, startled by a cluster of shadows, squat and grotesque. Her breath catches and her heart pounds even though she's already made sense of it. Furniture. The wrought-iron cafe table and chairs wrapped up for winter.

Of course it's wrapped up. She remembers last January. She remembers last year and the brutal cold of the park bench and how he chased it away. How they chased the cold away together and light came unexpectedly.

"I brought a blanket."

That should startle her. His sudden, soundless appearance at her shoulder should startle her more than anything so sensible—anything so expected—as furniture wrapped up against the season.

It doesn't though. She tries not to smile too hard. She tries not to smile at all as she turns to him and holds out the cup in her left hand.

"Hot chocolate," she says.

His eyes light up. "La Esquiña?"

She nods. Narrows her eyes and lifts her own cup to her lips in a defensive move.

"No kissing," she mutters.

His smile fades into nothing. Like it was never there. He gives her a grim nod and hands the cup back to her. Her heart bumps half a dozen frightened times in her chest. She has the absurd fear that he's going. That he's walking out on this. Walking out on _her._ But he's just spreading the blanket.

"If you want to sit for this." He gestures to it—an incongruous square of orange, bright and soft, from the foot the bed—but makes no move himself.

"For this?" She doesn't budge either.

"You said 'no kissing'," he replies testily. "Nothing good starts with that."

She shoves the paper cups at him, one into each hand. She reaches up and grabs his face. She pulls his mouth down to hers and kisses him hard. She pushes him away, fingers twitching with the familiar urge to twist his ear.

"No kissing for you," she snaps. "And don't snap at me. Sit."

The corner of his jaw twitches. His mouth screws up. He's mad again. The kiss and the sudden barrage make him ornery and it's dangerous. It feels dangerous.

"No talking for you either." She snatches the cup from his left hand and drops on to the blanket. "Not yet. Sit."

He folds up, just like that. He sinks to the ground abruptly and waits. He's still mad. _Really_ mad now. The words are hammering against his teeth, but it's better somehow. She's mad, too, and somehow that makes it ok.

She watches him. Her eyebrow twitches as he sets his cup down and folds his hands in his lap. He's the picture of attention. The picture of innocence. She'd like to smack him even though it helps. He's being really _annoying,_ and it helps tremendously.

"I'm not your girlfriend." She blurts it out and even though it was just a start—just the set up for what she wants to say—but she didn't think what it might sound like, and she's sorry right away. All the fight goes out of him before her tongue touches her teeth on the final _d_ and she's sorry. She hurries on. "Right now. For, like, the next three minutes I'm not your girlfriend."

He drags in a breath. His face goes from white to red and the air crowds around his mouth in frantic puffs. "Kate . . ."

"No _talking_." She growls it at him, then softens it with a kiss. He goes from panicked to confused, then, and he's really very cute. He's just a really cute train wreck. She gives him a warning look and he settles down. "So three minutes. I'm not your girlfriend. I'm your partner."

He looks at her. He opens his mouth, then thinks better of it. He pulls out his phone and twists away like he _expects_ her to smack him. He holds up the phone with an exaggerated flourish. Three minutes on the timer.

Her hand snakes out. He flinches away. She snorts derisively, jabs the button and sits there, absolutely silent.

The seconds tick down. She knew what she was going to say. She knew _exactly_ what she was going to say a second ago. But she doesn't now. Now, she suddenly has no idea, but her mouth is opening anyway.

"It doesn't make you a nice guy."

They're both surprised by that. Not just the words, but how gentle they are. How careful she's being with him after that dictatorial beginning. After all her bluster.

"What Meredith is asking—to invade your life, to walk in and out of Alexis's whenever she pleases—it's not reasonable. It's not something she has the right to expect. And giving it to her doesn't make you a nice guy."

She looks down at her fingers. They're sitting knee to knee and her fingers have somehow gotten tangled up with his. She thinks it's too much. More girlfriend than partner. Or maybe she was never a very good partner. Maybe they could have been closer to more all along.

She pushes the thought away and holds on to his fingers. It makes her tired, and it's something for later. She has less than a minute now. She's frantic to say everything she wants to say—everything she feels like she can't say as his girlfriend—and she's desperate for it to be over, too.

"I'm not jealous." It's not something she wants to say. It's something she'd really like to _un_ say, but it's done. She hangs her head. "That was more girlfriend than partner."

The timer runs out. He cuts it off before the first beep finishes and looks up at her expectantly. She lets out a laugh on a short breath and nods.

He grins and the words rush out. "Nah. My partner was always 'not jealous,' too."

"Castle." She makes a frustrated noise. "I'm not. It's why . . . I would have said the same thing if we weren't together. If we were never going to be together."

He gives her a skeptical look. "We were never going to not be together."

"Castle."

It's less frustrated now. It's sadder, and he hears it. It's sadder because she thinks he's not listening. That he's deflecting and brushing her off. He squeezes her fingers.

"Ok," he says quietly. "You're not jealous."

"You want me to be." Certainty plucks at her. It's an unpleasant twanging inside. "You want me to be jealous?"

He fiddles with the lid of his cocoa. He takes a sip. He's stalling. Not stalling, thinking. For once he's thinking and maybe that's the trick. Maybe that's how he doesn't make things worse.

"No," he says finally. It's only one part of the answer. It's only half the truth, but not because he's hiding the other. Because this should come first. He _doesn't_ want her to be jealous. He just . . . he wants to know it would hurt to lose him. But he thinks that's not a conversation for now.

This part is. This is how he thinks he might not make things worse. He goes on slowly. "I want you to trust me. I want you to know that however I've run my mouth off in the past, I don't want to be with anyone else. And I wouldn't. I want you to trust that."

She thinks about it. She tries, but his words bring an odd rush of relief and it's hard. It's hard not to give into the temptation. It's hard not to pretend like that's all there is to say, but it's not. It's not.

She steels herself for the next thing. She steels herself for it and belatedly wonders what it is.

He seems to know though. He's staring down at their hands, too, but he seems to know what comes next. For him, at least.

"I don't care about being a nice guy." He turns their joined hands this way and that. He's not happy with the words. "I mean. I hope I am?" He looks up at her. "I guess I hope I am. But that's not what it is with Meredith."

He stops then and she doesn't know if it's because she's supposed to say something. This isn't quite like him. He's thinking it through. Mulling it over before something stupid comes out. He's trying. She waits.

"I'm not bucking for ex-husband of the year. I . . . it never really occurred to me. But I have to think the best of her." He nods like it's close enough to what he really wanted to say. "She's Alexis's mother, and even when I know exactly what she's doing—even when I know she's being manipulative and greedy and using us both—I have to at least act like I think the best of her. Because she will always be Alexis's mother."

"But it's not _fair_." She thinks it's quite possibly the dumbest thing she's ever said. It's certainly the dumbest thing she could have said right now.

But he just laughs a little and nods. "It's not fair. But it's . . . it's better than the alternative. I spent the first few years hating her." He stops and looks up at her. "Can I kiss you?"

It's so sudden, so intense, that she blushes like she hasn't in a year. "Why?"

"Because you said I couldn't before. I want to be clear on the rules."

"No you don't." She narrows her eyes. "You're stalling."

"No." He shakes his head and the wicked spark that was there a second ago winks out. "I need to say something and I'm not sure I can without sounding like a complete ass."

"Maybe you shouldn't say it, then."

"I don't have to," he says. "But I think I probably should."

"Fine," she says between her teeth.

"Fine to the kiss or . . ."

"Castle!"

He dives in. He kisses her like it might be the last time, and he's not sorry.

It ends and he pulls back. He's very sorry about. And if it's the last time he gets to kiss her, sorry won't be the word for it. But they've started this now.

He takes a breath. "I don't know if this makes sense to someone isn't a parent." His eyes flick to hers. He looks at her . . . shyly? It's something like shy and she burns with hit. "Isn't a parent yet . . ."

He's afraid. Shy, too, but afraid. It stops her mouth. She's not sure she would have said anything anyway. She's not sure what to do with it. Him pulling rank that way, even though he warned her.

The "yet." She's not at all sure what to do with that, but her stomach flutters and it stops her mouth.

He's afraid, but she can't help him. She waits again.

"If had been just me . . . If she had just cheated on me, I think . . . I don't know." He steadies himself with a breath. He's afraid and this hurts, but she can't help him. "It's not like she was the first woman who did. And it's not like I never had. After Kyra . . ."

He shakes his head. It's getting away from him. This isn't what he needs to be telling her right now. He steadies himself again. "If it had just been me—just me and Meredith—maybe I'd never have seen her again. Maybe we'd have kept circling around each other. But I could never have hated her the way I did those first few years if it weren't for Alexis. I've never hated _anyone_ that way. I don't think I could for my own sake. But for her . . . for your kid."

He trails off.

Kate nods. She's not thrilled. She's still not sure what to do with it, but she's trying.

"It didn't do any good," he goes on miserably. "Meredith was Meredith. Maybe a little worse. I think . . . doing it this way. Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Hoping for her to do better. To be better at it someday. It doesn't do a lot, but I think she has _some_ shame."

"Not a lot." It slips out. It really just slips out. She leans toward him. Tips her face up toward his. "I'm . . . Castle, I'm sorry."

"No. You're right. Not a lot. Maybe not any."

The agreement comes quickly. It's hard and stoic and she hates to see it. The realization glides through her, slick and unpleasant. She likes his way better. She'd rather watch him hope for the best than live with the worst.

"Rick, no. I get it." She growls at her own lie. Not a lie, but not the truth, either. She falls forward and knocks her head against her own knee. "I don't. You're right. I'm not . . . I don't have kids. So I don't really get it and it's not _fair_ and she shouldn't get away with it. You deserve more and Alexis deserves more and . . ."

The words drop off suddenly. Inspiration flashes through her. She has an idea, and for two seconds it seems brilliant. "I can hate her for both of us. All of us. Alexis, too."

He laughs at that. He lets go of her hand and sets his cup down. He falls over her and tugs at her waist in the world's most awkward hug. He laughs and buries his face in her hair.

"I don't want you to have to hate her," he says when he can breathe again. He sits up a little and takes both her hands. He pulls her up, too. "I don't want you to waste the energy or have to deal with her at all, but . . ."

"But she's Alexis's mother," Kate sighs, "and she's not going anywhere."

"Well . . ." He considers it. "It's Meredith, so who knows. Maybe something shiny will catch her attention and she'll disappear for another three years."

"Has it really . . ." She hesitates. She's not sure she really wants to know. "Three years, really?"

He looks embarrassed, and she wishes she'd listened to her instincts. It's the flaw in her master plan. It's the problem with hating Meredith enough for all of them: He'd still have to apologize for her.

"Um . . . there was . . . she was supposed to meet them—Alexis and my mother—in Europe." He studies her fingertips and doesn't meet her eyes. "There were a couple of miscommunications, and then they were finally supposed to at least meet for lunch at the airport . . ."

"But . . .?" She ducks to meet his eyes. She's not quite sure why she's doing this to either of them, except there's something else she thinks she needs to say and she might need him to come this far to hear it.

"She got lost." His face is hard. She's seen him angry. She was pretty sure she seen the absolute full force of his anger, but she's never seen him look like this. She understands what he means about those first few years. About hating Meredith. She understands in a way she didn't five seconds ago.

His voice, when he goes on, is flat. It's awful. "Alexis said she got turned around in the international terminal and they only connected for about 20 minutes."

"But that's not what happened," she says gently.

"My mother saw her slipping out of a bar." He shakes his head. "There was a man at her table and judging from the fact that Meredith was a little unsteady on her feet, my mother thought she'd been there for a while."

"You believed her?" she asks quietly.

He looks up, surprised. "My mother's a pretty good judge of how . . ."

"Not your mother." She sweeps her thumb over his palm. A preemptive apology that isn't half good enough. This is going to hurt. "Alexis. She's smart. Observant. Lanie says she'd be great at forensic work."

He stiffens. His fingers tighten around hers, but she barges right on ". . . and some other time we can talk about how to smile and nod and tell her you're proud and happy with whatever she chooses until you really are. But do you really think she doesn't know?"

He blinks. He looks stricken. He really did. Until two seconds ago, he really believed. She's not sure she's ever felt this low. She leans in. She kisses his cheek and coaxes his eyes up to hers.

"Castle, I get . . . I'm not a parent . . ."

"Kate," he breaks in. "I wasn't trying . . . God, I knew I would sound like an ass."

"Yes," she says quickly. It's mean and it's not entirely true. It's definitely not fair, but she takes the save. She needs to say this. "You sounded like an ass, so shut up for a second."

He bristles, then swallows it. Whatever he was going to say.

"Should I set a timer?"

It's a joke. But one with bite. He's not happy and he's not going to be. That's too bad. Right now, it's too bad.

"You could just listen." She lets it hang there. She doesn't soften it. There's no venom in it, just weariness, and she knows that's worse. That it hurts more. But they're both defensive and raw and exhausted, and this is probably getting close to the end of anything productive here.

"Ok," he says, just as wearily. It hurts just as much. "Ok, Kate. I'm listening."

"It's normal . . ." She breaks off. It's not the first time she's said this out loud. She never hated Burke as much as the day he brought her to this particular cliff and dropped her over it. It hurts exactly as much now. "It's normal for a 19-year-old girl to hate her mother a little."

He jerks back. He pulls his hands away from her. She looks up sharply and they're hovering. Like he doesn't know where to put them. Like he's sorrier than he's ever been and he wants to help and he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"Castle, _please._ " Her throat is tight and she doesn't bother to hide it. "Just let me say this."

He starts to say something and stops. He decides. His hands land on either side of her face and he kisses her once, gently.

"Ok." He leans his forehead against hers for a brief moment, then pulls back. "I'm sorry."

She nods and catches his hands again.

"I loved my mom. _So_ much." She clears her throat. "All things considered, we had a great relationship. When I looked at my friends—Maddie and Debbie, everyone—I was so lucky. But the year I was at Stanford? We fought _constantly_. That Christmas vacation . . . we wore each other out. We fought about everything."

She swallows tears back and tries to catch her breath. He brings her fingertips to his lips. He kisses them one by one and waits. She knows he wants to say something. She's grateful he doesn't.

"I said I was sorry to her the day she died. For saying I hated her the day before. It's why we were having dinner. My dad was trying to play peacemaker. He promised we'd go where I wanted if I took it back." Her eyes drop to the blanket. They fix on a point somewhere far away. "So I did. I said I did, but the truth is, I hated her a little."

"Kate . . ." He makes a gesture. Pulls their hands to his chest like he wants to take it back. He does. He doesn't. He wants to say a dozen things. That he's sorry. That he had no idea. That it's not really the same. He wants to say so many different things, and even her name is too much.

"It hurts to remember that." She corrects herself. "It hurts to admit it. I never forgot. But saying it out loud. It was the hardest thing I had to do last year. My dad . . . we don't . . . we _never_. . . . We've come so far from when she died."

"But you only talk about parts of her," he says slowly. He looks up to ask permission. To see if it's ok. If he's getting it right. She nods. Just barely. "Only the good parts. And she was more than that."

"She was. She was a workaholic. And she had a _temper_. She was stubborn and she _always_ had to be . . ." She stops. She stares at him. His shoulders are shaking. His _shoulders_ are shaking. "Castle. I know you're not laughing."

He looks up at her. His lips are pressed together and his eyes are wide. He shakes his head. He is _laughing_ and doing the worst job of hiding it of anyone, anywhere, ever.

"Do I need to remind you that we are on a _roof_?"

It breaks loose at that. He laughs. He presses their hands to his mouth and laughs.

She glares, but it won't hold. He looks up at her and there he is. The man who is so easy to be with. The boy she really, _really_ likes. His eyes are sparkling and his mouth turns up.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding like the least sorry person in the world. "I'm sorry. Go on. Tell me about your mother's flaws."

"I don't like you," she grumbles.

He leans in and kisses her. "Yeah, you do."

She does. She really, _really_ does. But she bites his lip anyway.

He yelps. She stares him down.

"Can I finish?"

He drops his eyes and nods. He looks something close to sheepish, now. Something close.

"It's not the same for Alexis. I know that. She's lucky." She tugs on his hands until he looks up. "She has you, and she has . . . what she has of Meredith."

"You didn't have either," he says suddenly. Like it's just clicked. It has. He knows she was nineteen. That her dad disappeared into alcohol more or less right afterward. He knows all that. But it hits him—really hits him for the first time—that Alexis is nineteen. "Shit."

"Yeah. 'Shit' about sums it up." She gives him a minute. He bows his head over his knees like he's suddenly tired. Not suddenly. He _is_ tired. They both are.

She pulls one hand free and runs it through his hair. "I never got to have a relationship with my mom as an adult. I think we would've been close again. Eventually, I think we would have been friends. And there would have been things I didn't like about her and she didn't like about me. And that's normal."

He tips his head to the side. Seeks her palm against his cheek and asks something he doesn't really want to hear the answer to. "And your dad?"

She hates him for it and she loves him. It's something she should say. It's something she would have said a year ago and it's where this has all been leading. She would have said it a year 's not that she wanted to hurt him then. It's not that she wants to hurt him now. But he's asking. He's asking.

"I think . . . when I was nineteen I was still daddy's little girl. I played him off my mother and did what I could to get my way and . . ." She takes a breath. This hurts, too. It all hurts. "That had to end some time. It's supposed to."

She waits to see if he'll break in. She expects him to, but he doesn't. His head dips down again, and he doesn't look at her.

"It's supposed to end. Not the way it did for me. It's not supposed to end like that. And for Alexis, it won't. She'll always have you. She won't lose those years. I did, and even still, I love my dad." She pauses. She thinks about her dad. His calm way and his dry sense of humor. But the sadness that clings to him, too. The way happiness is a fragile thing for him.

"I _love_ my dad," she says again. "But when it comes to my mom, we tell these lies. We only talk about this perfect version of her, because it hurts too much to do anything else. And there are parts of her that neither of us gets to know, because we can't . . ."

She breaks off again. She swipes at her eyes and knocks against his fingers, on their way to the same task. She pulls their hands into her lap. It helps. Holding on to him helps.

"I'm not blaming _him_ for that. It's . . . it's both of us, and it's been too much time." She's abruptly tired of the sound of her own voice. She feels like she's been going on for hours.

She swallows hard and looks him in the eye. Lanie was right. It's about boundaries. His and hers, too. Theirs together.

"Don't make Alexis lie to you. Don't . . . _invite_ that. You've done right . . ." She bites her tongue. She starts to, then stops. She would have said this last year. "You've done _more_ than right by Meredith, but you can't keep managing that. You have to let Alexis draw her own boundaries and make her own demands. And she's probably going to hate her mother. At least for a little while."

"And me?" He's looking at her now. At least he's looking at her.

"Maybe, Castle," she says quietly. "Maybe a little? Maybe sometimes? I never . . . not even when my dad was drinking. We never clashed like my mom and I did. Maybe it's a father–daughter thing, or maybe we're too different to get under each other's skin that way. I don't know. But I love knowing my dad the way I do now. As a grown-up. For all the things we do wrong, we do a lot more right, and there's no way I'd trade that for staying his little girl. I don't think Alexis would, either."

"But what if I paid her?" He says suddenly. His voice breaks. It's hoarse and ruined. It spoils the effect entirely, but she laughs anyway.

She laughs and slides over next to him. She wedges herself between him and the canvas bulk of the stacked chairs. She wraps herself around him. He wraps himself around her and whispers _Thank you_ against her skin. She shakes her head. She kisses him.

They sit together. The traffic grows fainter, and the sky will grow light eventually. Even in January,the sky will grow light.

They have to go back downstairs. She wants to go back. She wants to step inside his home and reclaim her welcome. In a little while, though. A little while. For now she likes this. She likes the sky and the city above them. She likes the two of them in the corner of the roof she thinks of as theirs.

She likes it, but he's shivering. She has his coat. She has _one_ of his coats and apparently he's forgotten the other fifty. He's sitting there—he's _been_ sitting there—in his pajama pants and a couple of sweatshirts.

She slips out of his arms. She untangles him from around her and tugs him up while he complains. He mutters and reaches for her, but she shoos him away. She shoos him off the blanket. She scoops it up and wraps it around him. She pulls it close under his chin and leads him back home.


End file.
